been a while crocodile.

crikey.

it's been an age.

seems like summer has swiftly been and gone...and it's only august. gotta love british summers. the black opaque tights have been pulled out from underneath the pile of unworn summer garms, my brolly is vast becoming a staple in the bottom of my bag, my holiday tan is fading by the hour despite daily slapping on copious amounts of 'tan maximising' moisturiser and i am finding it increasingly hard not to launch my computer out of the window after seeing everyones holiday/ travelling/ "i'm having the time of my life and you're not. MUG" photos popping up all over my facebook news feed.

kill me.

so yes. i am still a moany bitch. i still find most people really annoying and extra and they therefore get hidden/ darked/ mugged off on facey, still spending more than i actually earn, still continuing to beat up my liver till an inch of it's life and still want to murder the hairdresser that fucked up my hair. so yeah, clearly still LOVING LIFE.

tis not all a bag of shit though. got some stuff to look forward over the coming weeks and i will tell thee all via some pictures. because it looks pretty and well, i might aswell:

in just under a month i will be going to BARCELONA for a wee bit to see my krazy (with a k) irish belle michelle for 4 days of boozing and bitching. my kind of holiday. OLE!


i am currently awaiting these beauties that will see me through into the blisteringly shitty winter thats no doubt upon us. i cannot wait to till they are on my size 4's.


my bestest friend jim (she is a girl by the by) is soon to be a wifey and i one of her bridesmaids. excited isn't the word. 'scared' probably is. we are yet to choose the dresses and i do fear that she has the power and capability (seeing as it is HER day. GAWD. what a bitch) to make me look like a 12 year old fairy, fabulously highlighting my lack of 'boobage' and all coming together in a colour that will make me look ill and jaundice. CAN'T WAIT.

despite an array of delayed flights, dramas and deaths whilst on holiday with the girls at the end of june, with so much shit going OFF you literally can only be hysterical in disbelief, at what can only simply be described as 'all a bit touch and go' i have finally put down all the depressing beyond words books i was attempting to read on the beach before getting distracted with the bat and ball. you know all those 'daddy, don't do it...i said no' and 'uncle sam...i thought you were my friend' kinda books and have finally swapped them for a classic and a fave of mine:


say no more on that anyway...

carnival is ever nearing and i can't wait to be stuffing my face with jerk chicken, banana fritters and anything else going. if last year is anything to go by, i will be on the tube early doors with my flatmates, necking luke warm malibu and pineapple juice from old coke bottles at around 11am and being those annoying pricks who blow their whistles as loudly as humanly possible. because it's carnivaaaaal! what i wouldn't like a repeat of however, is nearly being suffocated to death by being LITERALLY held up smack in the middle of a dirty grime sound system as i came off the beaten path to try and find the loo. i was hastily ushered through the crowd of sweaty, angry 'dutty winers' with my feet not actually touching the ground and my bladder being on the verge of exploding in the blazing heat. only to then finally reach a queue 20 people deep to use a toilet in the back of a kebab shop. FANTASTIC.


so that's it for now.

i'd forgotten how good it felt to rant and rave. i've missed it :)

"let's get right ok?"

it's world cup fever. everywhere you look there's chavvy freebie england flags with love from 'the sun' flying out of cars, greggs filling their window displays once again with cup cakes and gingerbread men disastrously decorated in red and white icing that have the ability to send footy mad brats running loco with the amount of additives oozing out them, hoards of men with not a girlfriend in sight because they have lost them to the honduras v chile game (sorry who?) and wouldn't be the slightest distracted if their women were naked, draped in just an england flag and stilettos lap dancing around their tables covered in chips and beer.

so what are the girls left with? yes. the newly released pics of ronaldo sleazing it up in armani y-fronts awkwardly reclining on a chair sporting a back to 1995 gelled mohican. PROJECTILE.

i will promptly pass on those thanks.

however, what you CAN leave me with is this. EVERYTIME.

the 'hot n fun' new vid from pharrell... and the other two. how is it possible that he can ride around in the back of a car, in a gilet of all things, a furry russian hat and still manage to look like SEX personified. and the gold toofs have gone! i'm a happy happy girl. oh and sozza for the turd quality but needs must...



but, forgetting the slimy portugese and the OTT americans (not generalising AT ALL) tis all about 'engerlaaaand nah nah' tonight and i'm sure we've all got everything crossed that robert 'i can't believe i've got butter on my fingers' green does us proud tonight. and doesn't balls up again- pun DEFS intended. because no doubt the cruel tabloids have their cut out effigies waiting in the wings for poor greeny. in the space of a week, the england team are the best thing since hovis, then one mistake and they have to go into hiding in fear of being beaten and egged for being shite. us english fans, we're as patriotic as they come.

i have to say though, i am getting slightly peeved at having to watch the SAME fuzzy black and white footage of the winning 1966 england team on all channels as they try to convince us all to keep optimistic about our chances this time. because you know, it wasn't like it's coming up to nearly HALF A CENTURY ago that we won it last time is it? noooo. the ye old highlights from that game are wearing a bit thin with the match looking so ancient, the players were probably kicking around a ball made of elastic bands and fans paid no more than a 'tupence' for a ticket. but i'll still be out tonight cheering the lads on and wishing the fab man a happy 64th birthday.


COME ON ENGLAND!

it's about time...

it's about time for a lot of things... like me posting for starters. it's certainly been an age since, that i've probably grown a couple of inches and sprouted some grey hairs, more grey hairs shall i say- i have a 'tuft' of the shitters underneath my thankfully heavy fringe which in the wind pops out and says an uninvited embarrassing hello to the world. my hair saga continues.

what's really been a long time coming though and so far the highlight of my week... the long and overdue axing (fingers crossed it's a bloody, gruesome brutal one) of eastenders finest devil spawn, ben mitchell. now i know he is merely a fictional character but it is moreso his really irritating and annoying face, facial expressions, voice, generally him as an unfortunate being that has me raving 'ding dong the wicked brat is dead'. this is the best bit though, the character itself isn't being ditched...just the actor. how JOKES is that?! blatently the producers are thinking EXACTLY the same as me and has taken them a stupid amount of time to realise how SHIT he is at acting. not to mention they probably feel really guilty now after making ben prance around the living room in a makeshift lady gaga outfit made from tinfoil in front of his staunchly homophobic dad phil while the audience looks on fully cringing.

now i don't condone violence but i did grin from ear to ear when ben finally got a clout from his dad after being a little monster to yes, his just as irritatingly bad acting little sis. and yep it's only a soap, but you have to get your kicks from a few storylines (defs NOT the one involving pat, peggy and the creepy perve harvey who recently suggested a cheeky threesome. christ) but you know what i'm saying?


now to find a way of killing off fatboy/ fatz/ whatver. it makes my skin crawl everytime i hear him say 'braaav' 'babygirl' and 'two two's'. who does he think he is?! can you imagine him even holding a conversation with easties veteran dot cotton? i don't think she could manage raising her eyebrows any higher during her "oooh i saaaaay" look that is constantly slapped all over her mush. saying that though, she probably does need an update from the latest urban dictionary as i swear she still speaks about shillings and the plague.

regardless, prattboy needs to GO asap, preferably by getting runover by his own van, saying his last dying words in full clad rocawear and adidas shelltoes. que the douf douf.

this is what happens when you take the girl out of london

originally a north weezy londoner and now residing in lord alan sugar's part of town, the 'cor blimey guvnor it's only the bloody eastend', there isn't much i don't love about the place. i rarely seem to think about or notice the rumoured bad stuff that goes down despite yet another speeding ambulance nearly knocking me for six as i amble up mare street with a burger and can of red stripe in hand, but hey, at least it's never quiet. however, as much as i love bar hopping around shoreditch on a friday night, enjoy seeing the crowds filling out onto the streets as they neck the dregs of their beer before dashing the plastic glasses into the nearest over flowing 'in need of a change' bin, i feel the 'scene' can be become a tad repetitive. it's torturous being exposed to yet ANOTHER ear bleeding night of progressive-acid-broken beat-trance-techno chilled ibiza tripe. and quite frankly, my night can quite quickly turn shite and i wanna jump on the n55 home before i let loose my uncontrollable urge to strangle the dj with the cord of his own diamante embellished headphones.

so when my mate asked me if i wanted to partake in a night out in her neck of the woods in northampton last saturday, i said 'why aye' in my best attempt at a newcastle accent (she's a geordie) and boarded my train at euston, happy to leave behind a shit filled night of tunes that wouldn't sound out of a place during an episode of 'eurotrash'.

upon arrival, the first thing on my mind was FOOD. standard. when and where and how we were getting it were the only questions that needed answering. and being a true friend, it seemed jodi had these all prepped, informing me that we would indeed be hitting up the ever popular 'imrans balti house'. i had a fat curry to look forward to, a bring your own booze policy to strongly adhere to and would be experiencing the famous family naan. "get me there NOW" said the chicken bhuna loving beast.

now i don't joke. but this naan was HENCH. could definitely feed a family...for about a month. it was truly immense as was my ridiculously huge curry which sat happily in an authentic balti bowl the size of a dinner plate. that was sex right there. after we finished up, chanting continuously "im soooooooo full" whilst rubbing our protuding korma and carling filled bellies, we were chauffeured into the town of northampton....and so it began.

teetering down the cobbled streets keeping our eyes peeled for the nearest cocktail bar to dive into, we could count on BOTH our fingers and toes, 10 times over, the amount of looks, sniggers and guffaws we got from simply wearing supposed 'on trend', fashionable clothes. now i really don't mean that in a pretentious, dickhead fashionista way OR am i saying that i have the belief that every trend, just because vogue deems it fashionably acceptable (come on, socks and sandals? i was never on that) is automatically stylish. what i mean is we were simply wearing items of clothing (a maxi skirt and harem pants if you're interested) that unfortunately weren't either of the following:

- a mini skirt or dress that rode up our arses so as to expose both buttocks
- sky high see through stripper platforms combined with rank french manicured toenails and some form of jewel/flower design/chinese symbol in the corner of the big toe
- a ridiculously fake tanned complexion that had been caked on with a trough fit for an oompa loompa

talk about baffled.

drinks in hand, we casually made our way upstairs as to avoid the sniggering circus in cahoots behind us, found ourselves seats on the balcony deck so we could commence our long overdue chinwag/bitch, only to be be disturbed by the oncoming rowdy bunch of knobs proudly parading around in their 'i can make your bedrock' tshirts and officers club white plimsoles. the ringleader and slurring drunken slob who referred to himself as 'jimmaaay' just about managed to gurgle: "so what made you wear these trousers? what were you thinking when you decided to wear them?"

i could ask you the same thing. prick.

the comments continued throughout the night, mostly from men. the lovely ladies of northampton decided on just blatent pointing and eviling us from head to toe, like a scene straight out of mean girls; of course naturally they were all sipping cheap wine out of straws and wearing their finest jane norman ensembles. evidently, i had a clear reason to worry...


whilst waiting in a queue for the club, we let out synchronised jaw drops as we observed one boozed up bird, displaying an outright homage to jodie marsh who literally fell out of a bar and onto the floor in her ever so sexy fancy dress army outfit. we weren't to worry though because she would soon be helped up by her just as wasted mate in a backless, frontless, crotchless dress. it was like watching one of those cack living tv shows called booze britain or something...LIVE.

after sinking a few more jagermeisters and enjoying a ridiculous amount of boogying on down to a bit of timbaland and timberlake, we called it a night at around 3 and headed homeward. over a cuppa and leftover curry we discussed at length how strange the evening was in regards to our 'too out there' outfits. why had it caused such a hoopla? because we weren't donning corned beef legs in lipsy dresses and tramp stamps, we were in the firing line for some digs? it's laughable though. i'm not one to take myself too seriously and didn't take it personally.

but as i arrived back in london on sunday, it felt good to be back. and as much as i loved the change of scene, imran's and shimmying my way through the pop chart, i'm looking forward to a weekend in the sun, a couple bevs in london fields and going out in my jazzy jeff trewsers again...no doubt skanking out to the newest electro beats. JOY.

too hot to trot?

the main part of the election drama is now over. hurrah! i was getting seriously bored of the awkward conversations at work; people talking policies and prats, snobs and stats, but it also meant i was forced to kinda keep schtum the whole time because to be honest i didn't know enough about the snooze fest that is politics.

yeh yeh yeh i know it's important and all that jazz, but when you are bombarded with links to quiz websites falsely telling you which party you are most suited to because you tick the 'i prefer a chinese to a traditional english roast' box or the sites that basically tell you, according to where you live, how irrelevant and unnoticed your vote was going to be, it was hardly motivation to take the whole thing seriously was it? as cynical (and admittedly a tad ignorant) as it may sound, it just all seemed like a bit of sham in the end. what with nick clegg, or 'cleggy' said the chants of his gaggling bunch of horny OAP fans, revelling in his new found fame, signing autographs in a swarve pair of oakleys (not cool) being jumped and humped on by horny ethels, mauds and mabels who were embarrassingly dying for a toothless, gummy smooch... you couldn't help but laugh at the circus that was.

in saying all of this though, i do have a sneaky reasoning behind the unfortunate fall of gordon brown. check out the wifey's bad boys:


we just couldn't bear the thought of these monstrous trotters stomping around downing street for another 5 years could we?!

anyhoo, like i said, my political knowledge is that of a 3 year old probably so i'll leave it there and take this opportunity to salute my mates that used election night as another excuse to get on the sauce! i knew there'd be a bit of fun in it somewhere...

i couldn't help but wonder...

so i finally let my hair down at the weekend.

but you see for once, i'm not talking THAT type of hair release, when i say to the girls: "lets go out, i need to let my hair down" (in other words) "we are going OUT. i need to drown my sorrows with the help of whiskey and wine because shit has been hitting the fan ALL week, work has been nothing but soul destroying, my life is verging on meaningless resulting in an addiction to akinator.com and i still act suprised and clap like a demented seal EVERYTIME the genie man gets the correct answer, i've been so unbelievably bored that i have the keys F5,F6,F7 imprinted on my forehead from smashing it relentlessly on the keyboard and i seem to spend my entire life counting down the minutes till lunch at 1pm only to feign excitement over finally getting to eat my soggy homemade cheese and tomato sarnie and a pack of crushed up hula hoops" 6 packs for a quid in iceland if you're interested...

what i mean is, after 3 weeks of wearing the mop in a ballerina bun perched on top of my head from dusk till dawn because i couldn't bare the sight of it in all it's boring, mid length, averagely shite glory since it got hacked away, i decided at long last to wear it down. don't get me wrong, i still can't look in the mirror and face the reality that my boobs no longer have a homegrown brown gilet to keep them warm anymore but in all honesty, i had to give myself a break from the semi essex facelift i was making for myself.


oh and miraculously my headaches have stopped...funny that.

other than this ground breaking news, my weekend with the boy was pretty chilled. a near enough full day of being forced to watch football/sky sports tv which is essentially a really boring busy screen with a monotone speaking OAP who probably played for bromley back in 56' or something, repeating the SAME football news over and over again along with 'breaking news' (really??) rolling beneath him as he jabbers on about the dry teams...basically, the ones that aren't in the top 4.

BORE OFF.

my end of the bargain was much more satisfying. i got to sit cosily with a cuppa in my bubble of all things singing, dancing and generally nauseating for most by watching over the rainbow and glee...oh and some SATC re runs that he didn't mind seeing cos secretly he's learning a thing or two about how us women work/need lots of shoes/clothes/cocktails bought for them. however, i think it's safe to say i've worked out who his favourite character is after his ears pricked up (no pun intended) during this delightful quote from samantha:

"i will wear whatever, and blow whomever i want, as long as i can breathe and kneel"

need i say more?

payday schmayday

for most, payday is their favourite day of the month. you treat yourself to a grande (not tall) starbucks in the morning, a hench lunch because it's the day you can rejoice and not feel guilty about not having to eat your 30th homemade tuna roll, you go down town after work and pick up those shoes you've been oggling online all week and then you're off to paint it red, hitting as many happy hours as poss before you pass out and forget your own name. you wake up the next morning, dragging your sorry hanging arse to mcdonalds to gnaw on a rock hard muffin, you start to hack into the splat of congealed scrambled egg, still not getting used to the fact that the sausage resembles a pattie (because you are basically eating a burger at 10am) which is smothered in sweet sticky syrup from the american-esque pancakes. finally, it's all topped off with a piping hot cup of water that tastes remotely like tea and burns off about 4 layers from the roof of your mouth. just me?

FANTASTIC.

however, my newly imbursed bank account doesn't stay flush for long. cos those couple days after payday is a complete wipe out. i have direct debits and standing orders coming out of my ears, i check my account a week in and i've gone depressingly back to square one.

POOR. BROKE. BRASS.


and as the month flies by, all before i can even sing:

"can you pay my billlls, can you pay my telephone billlls?"

the same scenario plays out like a broken record. (a really annoying catchy one). every month. without fail.

i sit and stare in disbelief at my online banking balance: '1am, £40 cash withdrawl: shoreditch' here, '2am: card payment for a ridiculously expensive round at a pub' there, yet all the while i'm scanning the 'new in' page on asos.com, profusely clicking the 'add to basket' button on jumpsuits, shoe boots and belts. but it's the cheeky tenners that really dent the wallet. the 'fuck it' tenners that are withdrawn on a random tuesday night for a cheap bite to eat and a few bottles of heineken cos it's 2 for 1 on 'beer of the day' at juno. i'm a sucker for a bargain.

but i don't ever learn.

take the weekend just gone for example. i spent a 80 quid in less than 24 hours. 40 going on munch, a couple bottles of rank tesco's own rose for a girls night in and yeh erm...ahem...hmmm. another pair of shoes.... BUT LOOK!


absolute crackers aren't they?

yeeeeahh so...

the other 40 quid might aswell have gone down the bleedin' drain after a shocking haircut. the crazy bitch hacked off about 5 inches of my mane after me telling her specifically i wanted to keep the length. she was clearly deaf aswell as dumb and basically left me feeling naked. and with a face like thunder. i've been wearing up it in a bun ever since and will not be letting it down till it's back giving rapunzel a run for her money.

so payday can get stuffed. for all the joy it brings for the first 5 minutes of friday morning, it only brings sadness and inevitable unstoppable spending. oh... and don't be alarmed the next time you see me, if i'm stumbling round the joint sporting a french crop, wolfing down an egg mcmuffin bought with my last fiver and shouting obscenities at the dick that chopped off my locks...but all in my new heels of course.